


Vigil

by In_Cogito



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: COVID-19, Caretaking, Childhood Memories, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Gen, Good Parent Martin Whitly, Hallucinations, Hurt to comfort and back to hurt, Malcolm Bright tested positive for the murder weapon, Sickfic, Soft Things Happen Bingo, mentioned - Freeform, tuberculosis, yes that's a real tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Cogito/pseuds/In_Cogito
Summary: Another hallucination of the good doctor rears its head and Malcolm finds himself indulging in what he knows he should never even think about.CW for brief mentions of Covid-19.Written for the Soft Things Happen Bingo:  Sick Day.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Good Dad Martin Whitly. Lemme write Good Dad Martin Whitly. >:c
> 
> Also, I haven't been in the fanfic game in years. Feel free to drop criticism. I'd love to hear what people have to say. Might come back and edit it down later.

Malcolm Bright didn’t make a whole lot of good choices. It was a given. The sky was blue. Water was wet. He did some dumb shit for the greater good. Trying to enter a college of medicine without proper clearance and fighting a med student (a suspect and then a confirmed killer) who was making off with a sample of drug resistant TB was one of those things. Gil damn near yelled his ear off for it. (And, to be fair, maybe “Guess who has two thumbs and tested positive for the murder weapon” wasn’t the best opener, either.) 

But he had his moments. He could stomach the odd morsel every now and again, could take an affirmation with him beyond his morning coffee. He could listen when his body said something was wrong and take some time away from the precinct if it meant no one else would get infected. Sure, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. The hallucinations and night terrors could really have at him. There would be nothing to keep the demons at bay. He was prepared for that. Braced himself for it. Foolishly thought he was ready when they came. 

At least he had the rain to keep him company. 

It didn’t quite hit the window of his loft. He couldn’t properly hear how it knocked and hammered on the roof, not with so many floors above him. As a child, he used to love the sound. The hypnotic rhythm and the way cars would tear down the damp payment. It used to put him right to sleep. He could remember cracking an eye open from under the covers and catching the bantering flicker of lightning that was miles away. Ainsley, the little fraidy cat, would climb into his bed on nights like that, as if the shadows and tree branches could reach in and grab her. Malcolm found himself missing it. Giving up on sleep for the time being, he opened his eyes and stared out into the grey abyss outside. There was no wind. Any thunder he heard rolled along without any real bite. Malcolm let out a deep, wet cough and rolled onto his side. He needed something. The rag maybe? He’d have to find it first. The fever was still raging like a bitch. No. His phone. Maybe someone tried to call. What time was it anyways? There was no way to tell just by looking outside. 

Did he sleep at all? He couldn’t remember. Maybe that was a good thing. 

He padded a hand into the covers and found the rag. With enough effort he got to soak it in the bowl of ice water he set up by the bed, wrung it out and draped it across the back of his neck. The nausea settled to a low simmer. Malcolm felt dry, stiff, fatigued, and itching to climb out of his own skin for some fresh air. An old Harvard T-shirt and baggy sweatpants didn’t quite let the heat out as well as Malcolm thought it would. But it was whatever. He brought this on himself anyways.

The loft was empty behind him, albeit a bit messier than usual. He’d left the kettle out on the stove. And maybe a cabinet hadn’t been closed properly. The counter was its own mess, too. Yes, he was alone. But he was smart about being alone, collected the supplies he might need and kept it on the nightstand or on the floor where he could reach. Tuberculosis was no joke. But other than that, he was a grown-ass man. Sick days were hard to get wrong, but they also weren’t anything special. You don’t need to do anything on a sick day other than sleep and tough it out (nevermind that, of all the things Malcolm sucked at, he sucked at sleeping). 

Malcolm lifted an arm above his head. The restraints continued to hold fast, even if the length of the cord had been adjusted such that he could toss and turn as he needed to. At the very least, sleeping on his side was a novelty. 

. . . It wasn’t like this when he was a kid. 

He was alone, his body left to wither and coagulate with the comforter and sheets. His mind could wander. First to trauma, then to memories, and then to . . . something pleasant. Something he forgot was his. Morning sunlight burst forth in his mind’s eye. It was bright, streaming through the blinds of a room he used to share with his little sister. Then the smell of tea and a warm, familiar voice. It was the sound of home, long before Malcolm knew he would have to make that phone call and break his family apart for good. The door opened with a soft creak and a pair of slippers padded out onto the carpet. _“Malcolm, time to get up. School day, remember?”_

Malcolm nodded to himself, nuzzling into the pillow. It made sense. Dr. Martin Whitly put up a good show. Had everyone fooled for many years. And now that the memory was coming back to Malcolm he could see that, once again, the good doctor played his part well. Called his school to let them know, shooed his mother and sister onto the rest of their day. They ended up on the couch at some point. His Dad read to him. No funny voices. No theatrics. Only the soft spoken musings of hobbits and rings and wandering wizards putting his seven-year-old self to sleep. 

_“Is everything alright? You don’t normally sleep in like this. Don’t you want to see your friends today?”_

The thunder was getting louder. Stronger. Closer. Malcolm rolled onto his back and let an arm flop over the edge of the bed. He had a bottle of something down there. Water. But his fingers were too slow and cumbersome, knocking the bottle down and out of reach. Malcolm groaned. And found himself in another coughing fit, long enough to make his eyes water. 

_“Oh, my. That doesn’t sound good.”_

The young man tensed and curled in on himself. Something was wrong. He’d been sick for days and something in this moment felt very, very wrong. 

“Here, sit up for me. Let me get a good look at you. You old man knows exactly what to do.” 

And just like that he wasn’t alone anymore. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know better. Bedridden or not, feverish or not, he could still tell the difference. “You’re not real,” he spat out.

“Hey, now. That’s no way to talk to your Dad.”

“Eat shit.” 

Martin didn’t budge. The distinct, fog-like presence remained at the edge of the bed. There was no weight for the mattress to dip under, save Malcolm’s own. “Must be serious,” came the cautious mumble. 

“You’re a hallucination. Manifestation of my subconscious. Possibly fever induced. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“That may be true.” Martin sounded thoughtful, speaking with just a fraction of his usual bubbly tone. He might have shrugged, not that the younger bothered to look. “But your subconscious doesn’t lie to you, either. I know what you were remembering just now.” The presence expanded and settled in on itself once again. “I miss those days, too.” 

Malcolm pulled the covers over his shoulders and up to his chin. This was dangerous. He knew it, yet his heart ached all the same. Malcolm wasn’t in his right mind. He was sick. Vulnerable. Compromised. And the child in him yearned to let the walls down just this once. 

“How about you sit up for a little bit? You might be able to breathe better.” 

No. This wasn’t real. He knew it. And he was strong enough to tough it out. He was a survivor. He didn’t let this monster in so easily, not even during their phone calls or their visits at Claremont. The red line was there for a reason. Malcolm respected it, even if he got too close from time to time. He pushed one hand into the mattress to hold himself up and used the other to prop the pillows against the headboard. It wasn’t perfect. But it would do. The young man managed to sit up, drawing one leg in and tenting the covers. He stared out the window. Breathing did get easier after that. Just a little. 

“Oh.” Martin’s voice was soft with pity. “You poor thing.” 

“Shut up.”

“I’m not saying that to belittle you. You’ve got active tuberculosis wreaking havoc on your throat and lungs right now. Doesn’t matter who you are, that requires a serious fight.”

Well, they agreed on one thing. It happened on occasion, an inherent risk of these visits. Malcolm minded the red line. “I know. Makes for a good murder weapon.”

“I’m sorry, _murder weapon_?”

“Yeah. There were three victims. Two professors, one student. Third victim wasn’t the intended target. Our killer wanted to open a few positions for herself, ensuring upward mobility in her favor. Not take out the competition.”

“With TB?” 

“It had to look natural.”

“So how-”

“Face masks.” Malcolm coughed into his t-shirt. “Covid-19 protocols on the campus.” 

“Ah. That’s right. TB spreads through the air, so the hits could be controlled so long as everyone followed the rules. I must say. An infected face mask. That’s insidious, even for me.” There was a pause. “You’re getting enough rest, right? Staying away from your mother and sister? Keeping up with your medication? You can’t miss a single day or else-” 

“None of your business.” 

“I’m a father. It is my business.” 

“Yeah, well you should’ve thought about that before murdering twenty-three people.” A beat. “And hey.” Malcolm put his hands up. “Side effect of chloroform inhalation: It does lasting damage to the respiratory system. This could kill me. So congratulations. You might get what you wanted after all.” 

Silence sat between them like a bottomless chasm. No comebacks from Martin, no venomous quips from Malcolm. Whatever. What’s done is done. The hallucinations could last anywhere between a few seconds and several minutes. But they always passed. They would always end at some point. Then he would be alone in his loft again, safe and sound for all the coughing and tossing he would just have to stomach for the time being. He would be fine for a while, until the next hallucination. He would survive that. And the one after that. And the one after that. And Martin Whitly would still be chained to the wall at a psychiatric hospital that treated him too kindly for all the damage he did. 

Malcolm coughed once. He was fine. He didn’t need his father. 

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”

He huffed a breath out his nose. 

“Here. Take this and I’ll be outta your hair.” 

He planned on not looking. It went without saying that he planned on following the plan. But the smell changed his mind. Olfactory hallucinations were rare in his particular case, but not completely out of the realm of possibility. Maybe it was the illness. Respiratory infections could do that to a person. It made him pause and think. That aroma. It was familiar, a particular richness he hadn’t experienced in years. His medication was the main reason why. Malcolm finally turned his head to look at his father, who sat there with a full beard, full head of brown hair and a navy blue cardigan on his back. He held out a mug. It was pink. Steam rose into his palm, fingertips gripped at the top and the handle outstretched, ready for Malcolm to accept. “What’d you put in it,” he asked. 

“Hot water and powder.” A curt answer. How very unlike the good doctor. “It won’t kill you.” 

The rain lightened outside. The wind picked up and sent droplets drumming on the glass like a thousand tiny fingers. Malcolm sat up and leaned forward, accepting the strange offering and peering down into its contents. Cloudy broth swirled inside, no more than six or eight ounces worth. White ovals and green ringlets floated to the surface. He remembered. “This isn’t mine.” 

“So?”

“No, I-” Malcolm fumbled with his words. Martin was already on his way to leave, standing up and adjusting the fit of his cardigan. His expression was flat. Unreadable. “The memory is mine. The mug isn’t.” He held it up and made sure his hallucination could see the angel painted on the side. “This was Ainsley’s.” 

If nothing else, Martin Whitly could be baited fairly easily. He said he loved his family. The truth was he loved how having a family made him feel. If nothing else, it got him to listen from time to time. 

But why did Malcolm do that? Why throw out bait when he’d gotten control of their conversation? 

“That’s right,” the older man replied. “You were sick. And I got you something easy. Easy to hold on your own and, well, easy to keep down.”

“What is it?” 

“You know, I wasn’t sure the first time I came across one of those little packets.” Martin sat back on the edge of the bed and he gave his beard a few pensive strokes. “I didn’t even buy it. Not the first time.” 

“Really.”

“It was a gift from a family,” he explained. “Last name was ‘Sato’ or something like that. They had a daughter. Very bright. You would have liked her.” A fresh light flickered in his eyes and he shook a finger in the air like he had found something. “Ok, so you may or may not remember this. But I worked in a hospital for a while when you were still pretty young. I got called down to the ER one night. That family brought their daughter in for an aneurysm repair. Good thing, too. She needed it. Badly. Her mother and father were worried sick for hours.” Martin let his hands float in the air as if to toss out the tension of the matter. “Good news. The surgery was a success. She was up and back in school in no time. Kids always bounce back fast, after all. A few days later, a package showed up on the doorstep.” A short laugh. “You know, families usually show their gratitude with a Christmas card or something. But I guess I wasn’t unhappy with snacks.” 

“That’s what this was?” 

“Among other things. Most of it was hit or miss. Can’t say I was a fan of that red bean candy, but there were also these tiny breadstick lookin’ things and those were alright. Good for sharing. There was a lot I hadn’t seen before.” Martin pointed to the mug. “I later found out that the soup you’ve got there is good for when you’re sick.” 

“Really.”

“Anything that’s fermented is a good source of probiotics. So I saved those soup packets for you and your sister whenever you came down with something.” 

“. . . She didn’t like them.”

The older man let out a warm laugh. “No, she did not. I caught her dumping it down the kitchen sink once, back when you two were small enough to have to climb up to get on the counter.” He wiped a finger in his eye and said something about how Malcolm should have been there to see it himself. Did he hear the story before? Maybe. Maybe not. It was hard for the younger to tell. But the soup still swirled around in the mug. It smelled wonderful. And his throat had been in agony for days now. 

Malcolm blew across the top and brought the mug to his lips, sucking in sad, tasteless air. 

The older man smiled at him. “Now isn’t that a relief?”

The smell of miso faded and disappeared. Its warmth was never there. 

“None of this is real. You’re all by yourself and you’re still in control. Completely safe in your own home. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

Malcolm frowned. Yes. That was the correct answer. He felt his chest tightened and anger boil at the correct answer, wanted to cry, wanted to bead down and tear apart the correct answer. How spoiled. How petulant. How illogical. That’s the thing about the inner child- They don’t know better. And they want without end, even when it doesn’t make sense. Malcolm gripped the mug tighter and watched as his fingertips dipped into porcelain and faded paint that didn’t exist. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.. The good man who saved lives was only a fraction of the truth. Grow up. He needed to grow up and take his pills and _remember_. Remember what he is, what he did, that it all fell on him to undo every selfish, sadistic, hedonistic act-

Malcolm was coughing again. Hot soup spilled over and left his hand unscathed. And then it disappeared from his grip. Everything burned. 

“Easy there. Easy. You’re ok.” 

Another memory surged forth. An electric light. A tiny bathroom. Headache. Stomach ache. His mother asking what was wrong behind him as he puked into the toilet in the middle of the night. Martin said the same thing to him then, too. Easy. You’re ok. He put his hand on his back and rubbed small circles there until it was over. Yet another perfectly executed performance by the good doctor. Malcolm looked up. Martin’s hand hovered over him. But he didn’t touch. He pulled it back. He minded the red line. Malcolm leaned against the headboard when it was over. He was exhausted. 

“You’ve got your water, right?”

Yes. He knocked it over, but it was still there. Malcolm forced off the right restraint so he could sit on the edge of the bed and reach down for it. He only managed a few sips before screwing the cap back on, finding the drink uncomfortably cold. 

“Looks like you’ll be able to handle yourself for-”

“Wait.”

“Wait? On what?”

“I need answers.” 

Martin blinked at him. “To . . . what questions?” 

This was dangerous. It didn’t make sense. But it was too late to stuff the words back into his mouth. “You- . . . You read to me. When I was little.” 

“. . . _Yes?_ That’s a normal thing for fathers to do, last I checked. And believe me. I checked.” 

“No, shut up. I remember that. We ended up on the couch. You were reading to me and I fell asleep and there was that ugly fur throw and I didn’t wake up until the afternoon but you were still there and . . .” Malcolm trailed off. He set the water bottle back down and wrapped his arms around himself. Shivers danced up his bare arms. 

“So . . . What’s your question?”

Malcolm Bright, a full grown man in his thirties, couldn’t come up with anything. 

“Unless what you’re asking isn’t a question.” Martin turned to face his son. “Maybe what you’re asking for is more like a favor?”

Malcolm looked down. He was tired. And cornered. By his own doing, no less. Dr. Whitly knew it. The silence stretched, the gears turned. The Surgeon chose his words meticulously. Malcolm looked down at his untethered hand. No tremor. But the fear should have swallowed him whole. He was in danger. 

“Hang, on.” Martin was reaching his arms behind himself and shucking off his cardigan, leaving a grey button up shirt behind. “I think you need this more than I do.” 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

With a long sweep and a few gentle adjustments, Martin had draped the cardigan over Malcolm’s shoulders. He reached up and took a handful, rubbed the soft cashmere between his fingertips. Whats and whys died on his dry lips. 

“You didn’t get sick often,” his father began. “But when you did, it hit you hard and fast. Tore me up inside every time I saw you like that. _Every_ time.” The older man shrugged. “Sure, you were a quiet kid. But you still had energy. You always had a question, always had something to talk about. And if the sun was up, you were up. So when you slept in and didn’t have much to say, your mother and I knew right away that something wasn’t right.” 

Malcolm listened. 

“You still loved reading, though.” Dad gave a little shrug. “And a little distraction always seemed to help on sick days. I just had to match your energy, pick something a little bit lighter than the usual fare. We still had fun. Got to visit plenty of different worlds together. Hogwarts, Narnia, Wonderland, the Emerald City.”

Malcolm let the corner of his mouth quirk upwards. “Shire.”

“That’s right. And Gondor and Mordor and Rivendell.” He paused for a moment. “Fantasy is important, you know. You’ll go mad if you spend too much time in the real world. Your mother meant well. Your grades were wonderful, your tutors did an amazing job. Not to mention you put in more than your fair share of effort. I just popped in and every now and again to keep the magic alive.” He straightened up. “Oh. Hang on. Speaking of which.” Dad reached to his right side. “I have something else, too.” 

The younger cocked his head. Dad held up a book, something so old and worn that Malcolm couldn’t even make out the cover. “Uh . . . I’m not-”

“Don’t worry. It’s a light read. Not something you really need to pay attention to.”

Malcolm nodded. That was a relief. It was getting harder to think. He pinched a corner of the cashmere and tugged. “You want this back?”

“Nah. Keep it. Get your arms in the sleeves. You wear it better than I do anyways. Now, shush. Just lay down and listen.”

Malcolm did as he was told. With the right arm, anyways. He saw the heavy, black cuff on his left wrist before he could even try to get it in the sleeve. It felt cold. Moreso than usual. 

“It’s alright, my boy.” Martin’s hair had gone grey, but hadn’t splayed out into the wild curls like at Claremont. He had an unfamiliar look on his face. But it wasn’t a dangerous one. Maybe he had seen it on Gil’s face a number of times, but it didn’t fit the same. “I think you can let yourself have this, just this once.”

He thought for a while. And Malcolm unfettered the left restraint and let it fall to the floor, sending shock waves through the hardwood. Left arm in sleeve, he settled back into bed. It was strange. Listening to his father read to him this time was like laying at the bottom of a river. The story rolled over his tired body and felt thick in his ears. He couldn’t make out the words. They were blurring together, he was barreling into the next sentence before he could properly digest the first. The whole meaning was just out of his reach. 

But he could tell that it was a sad story. About a child who lived in a big, empty house with a family that didn’t really seem to want him, about nightmares and the monsters that whispered to him at night from the bedroom closet. About lies and the truth. About patricide, growing up too fast, running away from home. That much Malcolm could make out. It was heartbreaking to hear. He might have even cried, smeared the tears away quickly and didn’t interrupt the story. He just let the older man continue, filling the air with the warm waltz of his voice. 

It was such a kind voice. 

After some time (he didn’t know how long), Malcolm sat up with a soft grunt and Martin stopped mid sentence. “Yes?” He closed the book, holding his thumb in between the pages. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“What’cha need?”

“Nothing, just-” Malcolm cleared his throat and leaned forward, arms and legs still burrowed in the warmth of the comforter. “Why are you doing all this?”

Dad blinked quizzically at him. “All what?”

“You know, _this_. It’s not a trick question.” 

It really wasn’t. Or it shouldn’t have been. But Dad went quiet for a long time. Eventually he put the book down on the bed and let it close completely. He was searching for an answer. Cracked his knuckles, fidgeted. And, in the end, followed up that first question with yet another question. The truth was long and complicated. Maybe not all that easy to understand. But Dad was still going to try and make it make sense. “Do you know why people have kids, Malcolm,” he asked. 

“. . . Kind of.” Malcolm found a few stray threads to pick at. “What I do know is why I don- . . . Why I can’t have kids. I mean, it would be nice. I like kids. I’m just not . . .” 

“Sounds like you already know the answer,” Martin said. “It’s all about passing on a torch, my boy. You take one look at that bundle in your arms and it clicks, whether you’re ready for it or not: That’s who you’re giving the world to. All the good. All the bad. The unfair, the unsafe.” 

“I can’t shape a human life like that.”

“I understand the feeling. You love something more than yourself and you want to pass off the best hand you can. If you’re not ready for that, that’s fine. I don’t blame you.” He paused. And smiled fondly. “You know the first time I held you? I was terrified. And I was so happy. Trust me, there’s nothing like it.” 

“Is that what you tried to do? Pass on a better hand to me and Ainsley?”

“. . . I tried.” Dad clasped one hand over the other and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He sat there in grim reverence. “I learned pretty early on what I wouldn’t want for my children. Not a shabby place to start, I’d say.” 

Malcolm felt his stomach churn. His mouth went dry. Another tremor took hold. Three simple words strangled him from the inside. He asked the question before. In the academic sense, at least, a detached and morbid musing for the sake of his work and his studies. Had he asked him up front? No. Hell no. He’d only get roped in. He’d no longer be safe. And that was what Malcolm told himself for years. And years. But maybe he was a liar, too. A hypocrite. What good was such a hopeful ethos if he would withhold it from whoever he pleased? Maybe from the people who needed that help the most? 

“Who broke you?”

The silence was deafening, almost suffocating. Even the rain seemed to freeze and hold its breath. Martin slowly turned his head towards Malcolm. He looked shocked. Caught red-handed. “What?”

“No one’s born broken, Dad. So who broke you?” 

It’s all about passing on a torch. It’s all about giving the world to someone you love more than yourself. It’s all about the silver linings and the scars that children and grandchildren wear and that they never asked for, never did anything to deserve. It’s all about bringing a human life into the world and having nothing to give them but pain, whether you know it or not. Martin went white as a sheet. The wrinkles around his eyes became deeper and darker, the air quaggy with a profound sadness. 

“Malcolm, you-” The older man was at a loss. “That’s not your weight to carry. You know that.” 

“Dad-”

“This isn’t up for discussion. I don’t need you to understand or agree with me.” It was a warning for his own good. “You’re my son. And I love you enough to make sure you never have to know. End of story.”

Malcolm didn’t argue back. 

“. . . Come here.”

He scooted closer to the edge of the bed. Warm arms encircled him. One hand rested on his back, the other found its way to the back of his head and into his hair. Malcolm let his forehead rest on Martin’s shoulder. There was no danger. No rush of cortisol or norepinephrine to say otherwise. Every weary muscle and bone in his body accepted the embrace and the hand tremor slowly settled. It felt like being home again.

“I’m not mad at you, ok?” Dad rubbed long, slow strokes along Malcolm’s spine. “But you asked and . . .” He exhaled softly and spoke with something that could have been either love or pride. “Well, maybe your mother and I didn’t do such a bad job after all.” 

The younger could hardly move. His muscles became heavy, breathing became more difficult. The covers and cushions started to go cold. Dad’s voice faded and drifted. The air became chilly. But gratitude welled up within him, spilled out from his eyes and ran down to drip off his chin.

_“Try to get some rest, alright?”_

Wrong. Danger. Loss. He was about to lose something important. “No, wait-”

 _“You’ve got that test tomorrow. Your mother won’t be very happy if you flunk because you haven’t beaten this bug yet.”_

Malcolm sat up sharply, but it was too late. Martin was gone. The cardigan was gone. He was alone and safe in his loft once more, staring down at his bare wrists. 

And . . . Malcolm fell into the fantasy so hard. He did exactly what he vowed never to do and crossed the red line. The inner child got exactly what he wanted and the adult happily and foolishly indulged in it. Sought out something so innocent yet so essential in the predator he called his father. 

Bright bolted out of bed and made it just in time to vomit bile and regret into the kitchen sink. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! Feel free to drop a comment!


End file.
